


drug in the thermostat

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Mutant Sentiments (Marvel), Anxiety, Bathroom Sex, But whatever, Cerebus Syndrome, Crack and Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hydra Pietro Maximoff, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intrusive Thoughts, Masturbation, Murder, Mutant Road Trip, Nipple Piercings, Not Tony Stark Friendly, OOC Wanda, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Addiction, Sex Toys, Shaky Hands, Shibari, Spanking, Stalking, TEotFW Vibes, Telepathy, Vaginal Sex, Violent Thoughts, as in they literally do coke, kill the people that ruined their lives, lets be real nothing is canon in marvel, no beta we die like sluts, not that mcu wanda actually has any established character, sex therapy, wanda and peter accidentally on purpose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 08:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wanda Maximoff is not addicted to sex and Peter Parker does not need a therapist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> or, the one where wanda manipulates peter into a bdsm relationship so she can find a sense of self in being a sub.

It happens like this: the Scarlet Witch is leaping from a helicopter alongside her comrades—Black Widow, Captain America, Hawkeye and Iron Man (ew). It's dramatic, blah blah blah, it's just another ambush on some desperate terrorists to advertise the powers of the United States of America (as far as Wanda knows). Hawkeye is all, “Watch your back, Wanda!” because he really cares about her and Wanda

Well, Wanda for the past few days has had this thumping behind her ribs and this throb in her clit that won't go away. She has not slept for days because of it. She's horny and insatiably so. So whatever the fuck Clint is trying to say gets lost in the wind because Wanda is far too focused on  _ not  _ being a fucking slut during a  _ mission _ . 

And to be fair, she does a pretty good job of it. How many heroes can say for themselves that they took on bullets and grenades all while desperately wanting to swallow someone's cum? None, because that's a fucking stupid sentence and god, even the word  _ fucking  _ brings her brain back to the Russian porn videos she's been binge-watching, god, is she really

Okay, so at this point, she's walking through some very clearly evil base (apart from the fact that it was written in the report, she knows it's evil because it's all metal panels and no windows) as she chastises her horny brain for being horny before she opens the door that has a sign in some language she doesn't know. The moment she steps inside, she gets taken down from behind.

Wanda Maximoff doesn't get taken down from behind.

But at the same time, who ever knocked her down quickly straddles her and this isn't the time to be thinking about sex, but she can feel the parting of their crotch against her ass and the scratchy leather of their gloves starts strangling her neck and it's all pretty

Kinky.

Wanda Maximoff is getting strangled by the enemy and because she's so horny, because she has not had sex with anyone for  _ years _ , she doesn't fight them. The way her blood starts rushing as her head spins, the way her vision dots with the lack of oxygen— she moans and thrusts her hips up the best she can. Maybe it's because she  _ dared  _ to enjoy something, that it immediately stops and the weight over her slumps to the side and she crawls to her knees to see the enemy's brain leaking on the floor. Oh, cool. Wanda looks up. Natasha stares back with her favorite pistol clutched between her hands. Oh, cool.

Wanda is so glad Natasha found her, because as it turns out, Wanda took a wrong turn (they weren't meant to enter the base, simply to take down the guards and  _ stealthily  _ obtain data) and the rest of the team had already finished the mission, so they were all pretty worried. Also, they are all men, so if one of them caught Wanda rutting into some assailant's crotch, they'd know immediately what she was doing. At least Natasha is all:

“Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.”

“What happened back there?”

“Lost focus.”

“Really? Because it looked to me like you were having a flashback.”

“I don't get flashbacks.”

“No flashbacks, no dissociation, no panic attacks? Come on, we're all kinda traumatized. You can tell me anything.”

“It wasn't—”

Wanda's words get cut off as they approach the rest of the team, who are standing by the helicopter, all ready to rumble. Iron Man specifically cuts her off.

“Don't ask this one any questions, we all know she's lying.”

“Tony—”

“No, Steve. This mission was almost jeopardized because our  _ strongest Avenger  _ decided to take a detour and alert Nucroft. Our strongest Avenger, who—let's not forget—has a well-documented history of opposing us—”

“That was years ago—”

“And we're just gonna call this a one off situation? You're the spy here, Nat, you should know that this one is clearly a fucking mole.”

“Watch yourself, Tin Man.”

“Or what? You gonna take me down like Laura took the kids? By the way, how's Lila?”

“Okay, Tony, take a step back—”

“No, Steve. Why isn't she saying anything? She's reading our  _ minds _ —”

Wanda is currently watching the drama before her and wishing they could resolve this by sticking their genitals in her mouth, Natasha especially. She's also jealous of how Iron Man gets Captain America's large hands on his shoulders when those hands could be on her hips.

Okay, so maybe she's a little  _ too _ horny.

“She can report it to SHIELD, they'll note it as a strike—”

“You don't understand, she—”

“Tony, you're being paranoid. Breathe.”

Iron Man's shoulders slump as exhales heavily and Captain America gives him a small pat and a smile. For people like Iron Man, random outbursts of intense emotions is a very tragic thing to be looked into by a close friend or a therapist, no consequences whatsoever. For Wanda, it's shooting herself in the foot. She'll have a strike for being  _ horny _ .

-

“It's just a strike,” Captain America tells her. The helicopter was hours ago and now that they're back at the base, Iron Man is residing in his quarters and sniffing powder. It's the only thing that keeps him sane these days. “I wouldn't ask this of anyone else, but you know, it's one strike, they'll keep it for sixty days as long as you don't get another one, Tony will calm down about whatever happened—”

“Nothing happened, though.”

“I know, I just,” he sighs. “Please? For me?”

They both know it's evil to say that. Wanda can never refuse Steve, pretty much the only person who fought for her to stay out of jail. Even if they didn't know each other like that, he's all dejected puppy now—sorrowful blue eyes, hunched back, slight pout.  _ Nobody _ could refuse him. Wanda sighs and nods. He smiles and hugs her.

And god, that just brings all that horniness to the surface again, even though Steve is more of a dad than anything else. It almost  _ hurts  _ when he lets go.

-

If there's one thing that could cure Wanda's horniness, it's the HR Department at SHIELD's office. It is so unbearably drab, literally the walls are the dullest shade of almost brown, and the only sound in the office is usually the gum being chewed by Carol from HR. But this time, in the small waiting room, there's also the rapid tapping of a foot and immediately after, a hand slamming down on a table. And that kills any chance of Wanda  _ not  _ being horny. God, what if someone spanked her ass like that?

The spanker, a young man, catches sight of her and immediately apologizes. “Oh,  _ oh _ , I'm so sorry, that wasn't,” his voice fluctuates between semitones at a time and the hand at his side spasms, totally unable to hold the pen in his hand. He can't write. Somehow, even that is arousing.

“Let me help,” Wanda says. The guy shakes his head, but she's already taking the pen and form from him before he can argue. “What's your name?”

“You don't— you don't have to, it really isn't—”

“ I literally have to help everyone. I’m a hero.”

He sighs and runs a trembling hand over his face. “Peter Parker,” he says quietly.

Wanda pens it down into the designated box. “Hero name?” A pregnant pause follows and Wanda doesn't need her powers to feel the hesitation bouncing about him like rubber. “Come on, we're both heroes. I'll find out at some point.”

He sighs again. “Spider-Man. Hyphenated, capital 'm'.”

“ID number?”

He pulls out his card from his pocket. It's almost comical how hard his hand is shaking as he passes it to Wanda.

“And lastly, please describe the events regarding your report.”

Another pause, another sigh and his feet are at it again, dirty white Nike sneakers beating against the almost blue carpet. It's clear he prefers having something to do with his hands, because they fly from his short, gelled hair to his beige windbreaker, to his faded jeans and end up tucked beneath his pits. “So my whole thing is webs—”

“Not sure you can start a report with 'so my whole thing is'.”

He laughs breathily, looking down at his feet as though it would kill him to look Wanda in the eye. “Okay, um… There was a civilian falling from a height… 30 storeys up to be specific… I was in a battle with an enemy, realized too late that a civilian had been endangered, um… I rushed to save them, caught them with a we-... a rope. And, um, they, uh… the rope hooked around their waist and _ … theirspinebroke.” _

Wanda has to pause half-way through the last sentence, because  _ how do you break someone's spine? _ Of course, she's subtle and finishes the form with a polite smile, completely ignoring the last detail. “I could try forging your signature, but I've never seen it before.”

This man, this  _ Peter _ , takes a deep breath and brings his hand, now damp from the sweat under his arms, to pick up the pen again. There's still no luck in keeping it steady, so Wanda simply holds the clutched hand. “I'm sorry,” he repeats. “This is—”

“Don't worry about it.”

Peter sighs, but he writes, scrawly letters finding bumps with the slight jolts Wanda can't hold down. Finally, he drops the pen with another big sigh and sorry. With all his excessive apologies, he's actually kind of cute. In a lost puppy would-never-flirt-with-anyone-unless-they-personally-asked-him-to way. So it's just out of that slight interest, that curiosity, that Wanda takes a deep dive into his mind.

She wishes she hadn't done that.

Because worse than the resounding snap of someone's spine and the scream that quickly follows, is the trickling satisfaction that warms her chest.

He  _ wanted  _ to break their spine.

Wanda immediately leaps back into the present, where this wolf in sheep's clothing is still feigning innocence with hesitation and whatnot. Of course, Wanda doesn't say anything because yes, this is still making her horny. How, she doesn't know and doesn't care to find out. “I'll take it to Carol for you,” she smiles.

Peter nods, a deep seated awkwardness being the only thing to stop him from apologizing once more. Wanda holds both of their reports between her fingers as she paces to Carol's office, struggling to ignore the memory,  _ his memory _ , of the disaster. Snapping someone's spine in two. And Wanda thought she was bad.

At least Carol doesn't care if a psychopath has infiltrated SHIELD.

-

“Hey, Clint, don't we vet everyone who joins SHIELD?“

Clint and Wanda are in their private room, which is literally just the vent where they have stashed sachets of Tony's premium grade coke. Neither of them like the Tin Man, nor do they approve of his coke addiction, so cutting some for themselves is a very good thing to do.

“Yeah, 'course,” he sniffs.

“So we would know if a sociopath joined the team?”

Clint pressed his thumb to Wanda's tongue. She can't tell if it's the coke or the usual libido that makes her want to suck his dick right now. “Depends what you mean. A lot of the time, people use the term to criminalize people with mental illnesses that involve symptoms of negative affect—”

Wanda laughs because she has no idea what on Earth he's saying, and she's pretty sure she's taken to repeatedly licking his thumb, despite having no more powder.

“Hey, hey, break time,” he cups her cheeks with two hands. There is  _ probably _ something wrong with a father figure trying to kiss her, but she's also high and horny and she probably won't even mind. “How are you doing?”

“Big good,” she grins.

“Capital of Sweden?”

“Miami?”

“Sounds wrong, but I don't really know either.”

She leans forward.

“Nope, no, nein. Bad Wanda.”

“Tryna be good, daddy.”

“Okay, no. I'm starting to think that oily fucker switched out our stash with something else.”

“Please don't say fuck.”

“Were you trying to say there’s a sociopath around?”

“I really want to bang him. He's—”

“Alright, we're getting down from here.”

-

Even without the coke (or what Clint now says was not entirely pure), Wanda  _ still  _ wants dick. And not just any dick, but the dick of a possible sociopath. It's so bad now that she isn't even watching porn while she idly sticks fingers in herself. She's just lying in her bed, face down, ass up, one hand against her neck as she hopes that the possible sociopath is tall enough to fuck her from behind  _ and  _ strangle her. Maybe even anally fuck her. Either she's going to die from being dick-deprived or she's genuinely going to bang the guy.

-

The latter will happen, it seems, as Wanda's plan is to stand on top at the top of the Avengers' base and cross-check every mind in the city with the memory of his memory of that body snapping. Very desperate for just some dick? Maybe, but Wanda's dignity blew up somewhere in Sokovia, courtesy of Stark's weaponry. The only thing that matters now is finding the possible sociopath and riding him until her lust is washed out by his cum. 

Her brain is starting to formulate the worst possible sentences, so ignore that last part.

Wanda sneaks Natasha's all black turtleneck and jeans set out of the laundry room, then gets Natasha's leather jacket. She has never admitted it to anyone, but Wanda is in desperate need of a wardrobe update because she isn't exactly 16 anymore and she's pretty sure her metabolism is slowing down. Also, Natasha's clothes are ridiculously stretchy, so Wanda never needs to worry about the fact that Natasha is at  _ most _ a size six. She checks to make sure the coast is clear, before heading back to her bedroom and flying out of the window to reach the roof of the Avengers' base.

So far, so good.

Oh, wait. Wallet.

… Wait, she could just  _ help _ any situation that might need money with a bit of Scarlet Witchery.

Wanda stands on the edge of the rooftop and presses two fingers to her temple to focus, just like Professor X's Telepathy 101 video series taught her. It doesn't do much, but whatever. _ Who in the great city of New York is thinking about snapping civilians in two? _ It's only 20 million minds to search through and Wanda is great at searching. She had been searching for justice for most of her childhood.

Then again, she never found it.

_ Focus on the possible sociopath.  _ Wanda returns her attention to the search for the thick big dick. Not that she knows his dick is big or thick, but a girl can dream.

The mind she's searching for hits her like a tazer; a billion thoughts slamming into her and almost knocking her off the building. But it's there. 

The possible sociopath is there.

-

Can you blame Wanda for walking down the streets and avenues of Queens with her arms swinging at her side and a skip in her steps? This is the first dick she will be riding in years! First human dick in a decade, if you don't count Vision and first wholly consensual dick in like… 

Ever.

That's a depressing thought.

Back to the possible sociopath, Wanda is going to fuck him! She is going to find him via his sick, depraved mind and who knows? Maybe they'll rail behind a restaurant. Maybe it'll be a quickie in the bathroom. Maybe they'll do it in a car. Should she have brought a car? Fuck. Whatever. Doesn't matter where they do it as long as they do it. Anything,  _ anything _ , is better than her fingers.

The possible sociopath's sick and depraved mind leads Wanda into a sad, stilted bar on the egde of one of these New York regions Wanda has never bothered to learn (but it's a crappy one). It's more than a little crowded and the possible sociopath himself is right at the counter, dressed in impossibly sexy sweatpants and a hoodie— Wait, since when did sweatpants become sexy? That's hardly important. Wanda runs a hand through her lengthy, tangled dark hair, and then gives up because her hair has never  _ not  _ been tangled anyway. She approaches. The clacking of Natasha's high heels add to the anticipation swelling in Wanda's chest. Wow, she's really going to  _ have sex. _

Wanda takes a seat beside the possible sociopath, the man of her dreams, the man who better be packing otherwise Wanda is going to cry. She makes a show of tossing her hair as best she can and drums her fingers against the counter.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Oh, oh, it's you!” The possible sociopath greets. His smile is so cute and polite and maybe even more proof that he's constantly on the hunt for would-be victims (not that Wanda minds). “What are the odds?“

“I know, right?” she replies. Maybe she's just as bad, given she basically stalked him here. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, no, I don't drink.”

“So, you just bought that glass of scotch to  _ not  _ drink?”

He nods. “Spider-Man by day, non-drinking loser by night.”

“Then I'll drink for you.” Wanda shamelessly takes the glass and downs it. “I'm Wanda, by the way.”

“Peter,” he sticks his hand out, no longer as tremulant though there's a jolt when Wanda takes it. “But you already knew that.”

Honestly? Wanda has been debating over referring to this untrustworthy sociopathic man as 'Daddy' or 'Master', despite the fact that—upon closer inspection—he's kinda baby-faced. “So what's your tragic backstory?”

“I don’t—I don’t have one.”

“I don’t think SHIELD lets you become a hero without it.”

This possible sociopath, this  _ Peter _ , he has a few programmed reactions to everything in the world apparently. For all kinds of awkwardness, he does this thing that's half a sigh and half a laugh, and for questions he'd rather not answer, his unsteady hands start a journey through the atmosphere, searching for something to settle on. They're on his chin, stroking across the few patchy hairs that have visibly struggled to sprout, then on his cheek over acne scars, then through his hair, the tips of each unkempt curl shimmering sepia in the light, and finally two hands land on the counter before him. Wanda can only think about how fast those hands would travel over her body. “I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” he finally says.

Wanda's smile doesn't falter, because she has absolutely no qualms talking about her tragic backstory. But in the unlikely event that she did have qualms (she does not), they're killed by the refill the bartender gives her as a single red coil ensnares their mind (“On the house,” smiles brown lips and a nose-ring. Another time, maybe). “Well,” she begins. “Parents died from a shell, but more accurately died from being crippled, then starving to death in front of me and my brother. Got out with my brother to be homeless in a country with no form of social security, lived on dogs, rats and mouldy bread until I was fourteen, then I volunteered for a US program that turned out to be an experiment led by anti-US Nazis, got some powers, my brother died, dated a robot, killed him and now I'm a hero.” 

Saying it all out loud turns the scotch in her throat to glass and she's starting to think she should have lied. She's starting to think Daddy Sociopath won't fuck her because he's got this pitiful look on his face—furrowed brows and a slight pout—so Wanda quickly says, “But that was years ago. Your turn.”

“Um,” He rubs the back of his neck. “It's stupid.”

“Can't be more stupid than confusing Nazis for Americans.”

“Well, a lot of Nazis are proud and patriotic Americans, so there's that.”

“Come on,  _ please _ .” She juts out her lower lip, bounces a little so her tits shake. Whether the titty shake was necessary or not,  _ something  _ works and Peter clears his throat, staring at his knuckles flat against the counter. 

“Parents have been dead since before I can remember, got bitten by a spider, had a wrestling stint, got my uncle killed, my girlfriend killed, second girlfriend left, dropped out of high school and now my aunt hates me because she thinks I'm throwing my life away to be a hero. Not that I have the choice to  _ not  _ be a hero, but whatever.” 

His hands start shaking again and believe it or not, Wanda placing hers over his did not come from a place of horniness. For a split second,  _ just the teeniest second _ , she forgot he might be a sociopath.

She also forgot physical contact is like plugging in subwoofers and turning them up to 11. And physical contact with someone who has super-senses?

With Steve, it's selective. He's almost always in control, the daddiest of all Dads, so Wanda never hears what he doesn't want to hear.

With Peter, it's a billion trains slamming into him at once, blood boiling in his ears as he struggles just to keep it at bay.  _ my wife died who's the new man i swear there isn't enough space immigrants need to be taxed more trust me i've met him that fucker is a mutant the last thing we need this town economy murder _ And with that last word comes that beautifully colored image of a single deep gash through Wanda's throat. 

Wanda raises fingers to her neck to check that it's still in one piece. Peter? He's evidently becoming more and more of a mess. “Sorry, I'm just, I,” he gulps in a weak attempt to keep his voice steady. “I don't do this very often. Bars. People. Not to be weird, but, um… do you want to get out of here?”

The question has Wanda leaping for joy internally. “Sure.”

-

Peter lives in nearby in this shitty region because his apartment is only a few minutes away, but it's hours to Wanda, especially with the high heels beginning to stab at her toes. Knots form in her stomach, sweat pooling along her turtleneck. This outfit is too warm or it's finally occurring to her self-preservation instincts that she's going home with a  _ violent sociopath _ . Or maybe it's just Peter himself. That makes way more sense. From this point on, any cold feet or doubts is just Wanda accidentally slipping into Peter's mind. Thank god she isn't slipping deep enough to find her own split neck again.

The possible sociopath leads her into a building that's all brick and wrought iron and too tall to see the end of it, but still hardly enough to house a fraction of the city. The staircase is something clearly left untouched since the 50s and the doors, not much better. Peter sticks the key into his own place, then pauses. “Uh, I don't have any roommates or cleaners, so it's a little… I mean, you don't even have to come in, I could just call a taxi, get you back to your place—”

“Hey, I'm not exactly a neat freak either.” And she didn't come all the way to _not_ bang this guy. Now, open the door open the door op

The door finally opens and of course, the place isn't half as gross as Peter makes it out to be in his head, but he still makes a show of stepping over takeaway and wrappers like it disgusts him to be here. Despite his maximalism when it comes to eating, he's a minimalist in his bedroom. As in, literally, the only thing in his room is a mattress. Wanda doesn't even want to know how long he's had it for. Isn't that one of the top things to look for in a serial killer? Wanda can't remember, nor does she care to. She's going to have lots of jiggy-jig and she will probably run out of this place if she focuses too hard on the scampering noises behind the walls. 

Peter kicks off his sneakers and holds onto the hem of his hoodie as paces around the mattress a little. For situations like these, his brain doesn't a scripted reaction apart from being hard and being embarrassed that he's hard. “So do you- do you- um, do- oh, god, um, I,” he points at the bed. 

“Fuck?” Wanda adds.

He exhales, nails going at his scalp like he'll become Rocco Siffredi if he scratches hard enough. “That, yeah.”

“Sure.”

Peter strips his clothes and Wanda prays that Natasha's clothes won't snag or tear as she does the same. They're naked. The only reason Wanda's heart is beating this fast is because Peter's is beating this fast. Too bad, Daddy Sociopath, there's no backing out now. 

Since kissing is something weirdly associated with Nazis in Sokovia, Wanda goes straight to palming his cock and pushing him down onto his god-knows-how-old mattress and wow, they're really going to do this. He's neither thick nor big, but beggars can't be choosers. Wanda spreads her legs and holds his dick up beneath her and forgets condoms in favor of curing her sempiternal horniness. She shudders as she lowers herself down onto him and her walls tighten around him, bringing moans out of them both. His bare skin is also something weirdly associated with Nazis in Sokovia and yeah, sociopaths are only maybe ideologically better than Nazis, but Wanda needs to cum and that's not happening if her mind starts taking trips to Sokovia circa 2014. She places her palms flat against the spaces beside Peter's head and leans forward, clit catching on his sparsely-haired mound. Wanda has to hold her lip between her teeth because if she moans again, she's pretty sure she'll call him  _ Daddy _ .

Wanda channels all the forces of amateur videos as she slides up and down his dick, fighting to ignore a million things like the desire to forget the sociopath and just keep grinding until she cums or the fact that at this rate, she's going to cum before him anyway or Peter's thoughts that bullet across his mind.  _ im too hairy should have shaved big bush cloud nine nine eleven building collapse  _ And Jesus Christ, is he getting harder thinking about America's favorite terrorist attack?

If there's something totally immoral about that, Wanda doesn't care. Who cares about morality when he's pressing against the spot that sends tremors all over her body and the arousal has her clit swollen enough that it hurts. She ducks her head between her shoulder as she rocks herself to orgasm and soon enough, she's over the edge, moaning as theatrically as the many pornstars she has observed.

And right after the blissful high comes the shameful low. How is she meant to ride him when her muscles are aching from coming so hard? Plus, if she just quits and leaves, she might never find available dick again. Then what? Abstinence for the rest of her life? Not a chance. Wanda climbs off and crawls lower until her face is level with his crotch. Thankfully, Peter is too busy playing moral guardian over his own kinks to care that she's going straight from pussy to mouth.

There's something shameful about sucking your own juices. Shame is a luxury that Wanda Maximoff can't afford. 

She engulfs the entire thing in her mouth and Peter hisses, mind torn between pleasure and the total  _ wrong _ of fantasizing about death. There's also a total  _ wrong _ to the tang of her own wetness, but Wanda has a job to do. She hollows her cheeks over her teeth, taking the length to the back of her throat, then brings it out with a pop. Her tongue runs along the edge of its head and Peter alternates between “holy fuck” and “holy shit” as his hands grip her head and it's no longer clear who's fucking who. 

Then something starts ringing and Peter lets go, eyes wide as he beings a panicked search for his phone. He finds it nearby in the pocket of his sweatpants and his eyes grow even wider, somehow, when he looks at the screen. Wanda probably looks no less comical, with half her mouth caught on the edge of his cock. He answers with a falsely deep voice, “Mr. Stark.”

Wanda quite literally chokes on his dick.

“Um, yeah, I reported it. It's only the second strike since Gwen.” 

Shit. Fuck. She's fucking someone who Iron Man knows. Who knows Iron Man. Who may very well be an Avenger himself. How is that even possible? More importantly, she needs to finish up and get out of here.

“You don't have to—” Peter screams silently as Wanda's tongue goes over the tip of his cock. “Y-You don't have to challenge it.”

It's a shame, because the creases in his face as his eyelids flutter remind Wanda of Steve and her teen crush on him. It's also equally disturbing that her progression of attraction has gone from 3-year old robots programmed into 40-year old moralists to 100-year olds in the body of 30-year olds to 20-something-year olds acquaintanced with 40-year old billionaires and honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if this guy is only just scraping 20. She licks under the head, pumping the shaft with her hand as Peter continues to stutter on the phone. “It was an accident, b-but that doesn't mean it should get erased… everything is fine, you're just being—” He bites the back of his hand and Wanda can taste the saltiness of cum on her tongue. “Being paranoid. Yeah, I'm busy. Call you soon.”

Peter puts the phone down, breathing hard as he stares at the ceiling. “I haven't done that in a while.”

“Orgasmed while talking to your boss?”

“O-Orgasmed in general.”

“No-Fap?”

“No, it's… it's just harder to get off when you've seen—” His words are cut off as images of corpses sliced in half,  _ Wanda sliced in half _ invade his mind forcefully enough that Wanda doesn't even need her powers to see it too. He lets out a shuddering sigh. With the red now drained from his face, he looks tired. He pinches his nose bridge. “Whatever. I'm just lame.”

“I don't think you are,” Wanda says instinctively. It doesn't matter much to him.

“I broke someone in two because I can't get a hold of my mind,” he sighs. “Don't tell me you've done that too.”

Then it clicks. He's haunted. He wants the images there even less than Wanda does.

“I've done worse,” 

“How?”

“Well, that's for the next round of drinks.”

Peter raises his head to stare at her, blinks rapidly and the redness is rushing back to his cheeks. “Y-You mean—”

Honestly, she  _ did  _ mean it, shortly before remembering this guy knows  _ Stark _ . So she hurriedly dresses herself, averting her gaze. “I've somewhere to be so—” 

“Oh, um,” He probably also hasn't had much luck on the dating scene, given how much of a shock all of this is to him. “What about your number?” 

Now fully dressed and in the added height of Natasha's heels, Wanda faintly wonders if this is how Natasha feels every time she seduces someone on the job. She responds with a small smile and heads out, ignoring the tug in her chest.

On the bright side, she got the D and she'll never be seeing him again.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to the labyrinthine avenues of New York City and a stomach too tender to hold too much spirit, Wanda returns to the base well past curfew. Not that she can ever remember what time curfew is, but she does make sure to levitate into the base. It’s all for nought though, as the light in the conference room is still on when she attempts to creep by on a scaffolding of ergokinesis.

Steve sits behind a broad oak desk, all hard frowns and chin resting on interlocked fingers. This must be what having a dad as an adult is like, if former crushes are part of the having-a-dad package.

“Where were you?” he asks.

“Out.”

“It's past midnight.”

“Not written in the Accords that I can't be out past midnight.”

“It is written that you need military personnel around at all times.”

“I'm already 20—”

“That doesn't mean you're not a mutant—”

“Why can't I just go out for a few hours and do something that isn't just government-approved terrorism?“

“You've already got a strike—”

“That you made me file—”

“Because you're fucking up on the field!”

His voice isn’t something she usually minds, loud or quiet. Yet, part of Wanda is still sixteen and still thinks eloping with Steve is a valid plan because Vision was more than happy to kill her if Tony asked. Steve's bark stabs at her throat and brings hot tears to her lashes. There's no one else to blame these coiling emotions on. It must be visible—how much it hurts—because Steve softens, places his hands flat on the table. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

She nods, sucking up all her frailty in a single sniff.

“Sit.” She sits at the other end, doesn't dare invade his mind. He's recognizes the feeling of it well enough now, so she can't sneak a crimson tendril by.

“You're actually the best of us on the field. Your skill and technique are unmatched and you're a great addition to the team. I apologize deeply for the way I have spoken.”

All of that was written by one of Thaddeus Ross’ interns as part of the Avengers’ handbook on interpersonal relationships within the team, but she doesn't want him to feel bad, so she nods again.

“I don't think you've been sleeping for these past few days.”

Wanda shifts in her seat. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch.” He makes a quick swipe with the knuckle of his thumb over his forehead. An OK on the telepathy part when it's so explicitly stated in the Accords that abilities aren't meant to be used callously. But if SHIELD doesn't know, who gets hurt? You're not in my dreams these days, is on the surface of Steve's mind.

Maybe I just figured out how to control it in my sleep.

Unlikely.

“I've been sleeping great,” Wanda says.

“None of your se— none of your emotions have been… off?”

“None of my emotions have ever been off.”

The surface of Steve's mind broadcasts a memory of the time she accidentally mentally pulled him in for an erotic daydream consisting mostly of Daddy and creampies.

No shame if she doesn't feel it, so she stares him dead in the eye and repeats herself. “My emotions have never been off.”

“Good. Good, good, good,” He leans back in his chair. “So you just went out and came back, nothing to be concerned about?”

“Yep.”

“Those Nat's clothes?”

“Nope.”

“Not even the top?”

“Not even the top.”

“Alright, then. Glad we had this chat.”

Wanda stands and leaves. She's also glad for the chat. If Steve wasn't so dedicated to playing house, Wanda really would have killed them all and gone rogue by now.

-

Wanda Maximoff is an evil bitch and she should be really fucking thankful that Iron Man only ever took away her rights as a human being instead of vapourizing her on the spot.

It's something that has unironically passed through dozens of anti-mutant minds and something Wanda starts to believe as she stands outside Natasha's room.If Steve invented this game of house, then Natasha was amongst the very first players, until it became less of a game for her and more of a definitive role. Nat cares in a way that doesn't come from handbooks and Wanda is no stranger to taking advantage of it.

She knocks on Natasha's door.

Natasha opens, sweat glistening along her forearms as she stands in a tank top and shorts. Take a moment to forget Wanda's infinite mommy and daddy issues; Natasha Romanoff is incredibly sexy. Not just Wanda-is-horny-again sexy, but genuinely so that Wanda always spends a few seconds mentally chastising herself for not finding some way to stay slim, insanely toned and learn how to contour all while she was a homeless 13-year old.

“Privyet,” Natasha greets. “Vsyo v poryadke?“

“Um,” Wanda responds. “Skazali chto mozhno govoryut s vami?” She knows she absolutely butchered the grammar, but Natasha lets her in nonetheless and closes the door.

“Flashback?”

“I really don't have PTSD.”

“I really think you're wrong.”

“I really think you should stop projecting.”

“I really think you should get checked before you end up doing something stupid.”

How stupid is stalking a haunted guy thinking he's a sociopath and then fucking him, only to find out he's pals with Iron Man? Wanda would rather not hear Nat's answer, so she paces around the room. “Do you have any of those, uh… pills?”

“Which ones?”

“The emergency ones.”

If Natasha wasn’t a spy and emotionally reserved, she would have started ranting about how right she is and what an idiot Wanda is. Instead, she keeps her poker face on like Wanda can’t already hear her mind. “Do I want to know why?”

“You know why.”

“Who was it?”

“Didn't get his name.”

“And I'm supposed to just hand it out so you can what, do it again?”

Wanda sits on Natasha's bed, hangs her head and pouts. That's all it takes for Natasha to give up on whatever discipline she was attempting to instill and pull out a hand-sized carton from her bedside stand. “It’s very strong and not on the market yet,” Natasha tells Wanda, handing her the packet. “You can come here if it gets really bad.”

If what gets really bad?, she should ask, but Wanda is elated enough and hurriedly bounds towards the door with a quick thank you.

“Wanda?” Natasha calls before she leaves.

“Yep?”

“Did you take my red-bottoms?”

“Tony gave them to his ex.”

“Right,” Natasha pulls a knife from her pocket. “Thanks for letting me know.”

-

The only thing worse than being horny is being horny while having a medically-induced period that’s almost surgically injecting pain into every part of her body. Her head is throbbing and despite being confined to her bed, she can’t sleep. Peter Parker has become the Daddy Dom of her fantasies and she can’t find a sexier pornstar to obsess over because she can’t remember where she left her phone. With the hormones driving her close to total insanity, she’s starting to think this is way too much for a silly one night stand with a stranger. There isn’t one good thing that has come out of this.

Worse than the pain, worse than wanting to fuck a guy who's pals with Iron Man and gets off to gore is something Wanda can only admit to the cotton case of her pillow. She doubts anyone else in the world could ever understand, but

But Peter's laughter brings back the kind of simultaneous warmth and nausea she used to get when Peter's role was filled by Steve and she could see a whole world encompassing just her and Steve, because Steve was special in that he knew what being torn away from your home, culture, loved ones was like.

Peter is willing to be just as depraved as she is and both of them gifted their teen years to the government. Logically, that makes him the perfect partner.

Unfortunately, he knows Iron Man in what is most likely a friendly capacity. Much like Steve, that makes him unavailable and while it’s no eighty-year age gap, it’s still something.

Steve is now hardly attractive as the mother hen of the group. His favorite pastime is placating Iron Man, the man-child who has tried to bring down her bedroom door at least a million different times no. I know you're worried— I'm not worried, I am deeply concerned that all of you jackasses are somehow letting her stay in her room for two days— She’s unwell— What about me, Steve? What about me, huh? I am constantly unwell, you know this, you all know this— And I have tried getting you the help you need— You know what I need? I need her out of this fucking place or I'll get rid of her myself.

But that's been the discussion for the past four years and Wanda's still here, so maybe Steve is doing a good job coddling Tony instead of her.

-

It's four days of tragic menstrual cramps, sleepless nights, starvation and Iron Man crying in Steve's arms about how sad it is to be terrified of a twenty-year old locked in her bedroom before Wanda is up and running again.

The first thing she does is wait for Iron Man to find solace in Steve’s room again and then steals a cut too big from his stash, sniffing it all in one go.

The second thing she does is leave ominous notes around his bedroom, so he can have something genuine to cry about. Wanda hopes he has nightmares every time he closes his eyes, hopes his company finally collapses under the insanity of running it high and from outside the city, and hopes his ex-wife comes back just to leave him again.

Of course, she doesn't let the fact that Tony's a whiny little bitch or that Steve probably fucks him instead of her get in the way of having a fun night out. She's also totally over Peter whatshisname. In fact, she's starting to think she's just barely attracted to guys. Only reason why she keeps gunning for them is because anyone else would see past her tits and realize she's ugly.

This is a Fun Night Out.

She's got Nat's black boots on and now that she knows they're red-bottoms, she walks with an extra kick in her step. She's out on the prowl for some Good Thick Dick. Crimson coils spirals out, latching onto the thoughts and auras of every passerby. The simultaneous and rapidly changing flurry of emotions, identities—Wanda can only think to compare it to a bukakke. She loves it. One coil latches right on to a man with just the right ten-inch, thick and uncut and musky with that natural working class man scent. Filthy? Yes, but what part of Wanda isn't filthy at this point.

The ten-inch sexy man turns out to be middle-aged, loitering by a parking ticket thing as he stared up at the tragically gray clouds. With a cigarette at his lips and his two hands in his pockets, he looked just as sad as Wanda could feel from his mind. He doesn't notice Wanda even when she's standing right in front of him and she's starting to think maybe exaggerated poses don’t work anymore.

“Hello,” she greets, voice falsely thick with an accent from Novigrad elites. The man simply sighs and raises his right hand where a thick gold band sits around his middle finger. Wanda's an idiot for not knowing he's married, but she'd be an even bigger idiot if she let this nine-inch dick go. “No way you're married. I don't think any wife would let a fine man like you hang around a place like this all by yourself.”

He chuckles, taking the cigarette from his mouth. “She's dead.”

The coke has probably ruined her brain cells the same way it's going to ruin her nose in a few years, because how the fuck did she miss that? Furthermore, how does she turn this disaster into a back-alley blowjob?

The man continues, “I know. Why am I wearing the ring if she has been dead for three years? Professionals say grieving lasts about a year at most and then you move on. I haven't—” His voice catches, heart bleeding into the coil around his mind. It tastes like Sokovia. “Nobody gets it, you know? Nobody actually gets death. Because nobody has ever loved another person like that and then lost them to completely unforeseen events. Sorry to be this unapproachable ranting freak.”

The coke probably also ruined her sense of morality. Is there something wrong with splicing open someone's deepest darkest secrets just to find out everything they want to hear? Where cock is an end, this is simply a means. “Therapy doesn't solve it. Talking doesn't help. Everyone who wants you to move on is more interested in seeing you function than anything else, but you know what really sucks? The fact that to them, she's dead, when she's very much alive right here,” Wanda places a hand on the left side of his chest and he nods, now close to tears. He could have gotten the same spiel out of group therapy, but after a few weeks with a sucky therapist, he gave up on all forms of it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, too broken to speak up. “She- She's everything. I hear her at night, telling me to—”

“To go with her, right?”

He nods, tears running down his face.

“I get that too, a lot.”

“Who did you lose?”

Wanda hesitates slightly. "My entire family, and then some. So I'm one lonely lady on the street and you're a lonely man who needs some support. We'd make a good team, don't you think?"

Her hand slides up the base of his neck and she presses her lips to his, doing her best not to think about nazis or Sokovia or how her parents are turning in their grave, knowing she exploited their deaths for some sex. She pulls away, bright red soiling the man's lips. “I, I, I think so too,” the man says, voice low with lust.

All roads lead to Rome and tonight, dick is her throne.

-

It does turn into a back-alley blowjob. Mainly because the guy has a gun in his pants that he's been planning to use for dishonorable deeds. While Wanda cares little for life, she doesn't want her corpse to be found naked.

She has to squat as the man undoes his belt and fly to keep Natasha's jeans clean. Once his manhood is out, it only takes a few seconds in her mouth before it's thick and way too big to deepthroat, so she sticks to licking around the edges. The man sighs, shoulders slumping as pleasure curls through him and consequently, through her too. “How did you lose your parents?”

Wanda almost chokes. “What?”

“You said you lost your entire family. How did you lose your parents?”

“Uh,” she circles his cock in her fist. “Building collapse or something.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“Yep,” she says before enveloping the thing in her mouth again.

He groans, “Did you make it happen?”

In all fairness, she's participated in weirder sexual activities. One time a scientist apparently had to collect her period blood using his fingers so they could make progress with the research. Still, Wanda doesn't answer, because the alley is starting to smell like Sokovia instead of New York. Metal cages and pneumonia instead of piss and wet garbage. She buries the thing in her mouth until she's gagging.

“I made it happen,” he continues, panting between his words. “Made my wife die.”

Wanda gropes one of her breasts to distract herself from the fact this might be an honest to god sociopath and her corpse will be found with semen in her mouth. Just her luck.

“I,” he gulps, tugging gently in Wanda's hair. She removes her mouth from him. “Would you do it with me?”

“Do what?”

“Die. With me.”

“Like, right now?”

“Yes. Let's die together.”

If by some miracle she ever gets the chance to seduce someone again, Wanda will perform full brain scans before she approaches. The miracle will have to come soon though, because the guy is reaching into his pants. He pulls out a handgun. Wanda stares down the muzzle. Oh, cool.

“I can help you go first,” he says. What a gentleman.

Just when Wanda thinks it can't get worse, it does. The man flies and skids across the ground head first, courtesy of a camp red boot. A web latches around the side of the man and pins him to the ground. He’s out like a lamp. Standing before her is Spider-Human. As far as Wanda can remember, this one works for the New York Police Department.

Shit.

Her second strike would be soliciting.

And that's ignoring the dozens of violations before that. She'd get thrown in the raft once Spider-Human had her list down all her crimes. She'd be listed as a sex offender and then locked away from the rest of the world and it'd be like Sokovia all over again.

Spider-Human approaches. A trillion ways to kill him cycle through her head, but Wanda isn't so sure she'd get away with killing one of New York's most controversial heroes.

He removes his mask and his voice is strangely familiar. “Wanda?”

“Ah… Peter, right?” Oh, cool. That only makes the situation marginally better.

“What are you— Was he?”

Before she can answer, his typical buzzing mind is slamming into her again. A few thousand cell phones, hundred thousand footsteps, chattering voices, Wanda's being pushed up against the floor, Wanda has a gun in her mouth

“I didn't know you were Spider-Human,” she says, desperate to redirect his thoughts. He's pretty irritated she remembered, but he does his best hiding it.

“Spider-Man. Didn't you, uh, see it on the form?”

What form? she would ask, but then he'd realize she's on coke and that would be yet another strike. “Must have forgotten.”

“That guy, was he—”

“Oh, that was nothing.”

“But he was forcing you, right?”

“Not at all.”

“So he just had a gun in his hand and his dick out at the same time?”

Wanda goes quiet.

“Look, I know what it's like and you don't have to protect him,” Peter lowers his voice, all soft and gentle. His brain can hardly handle the multiple facets of humans, so Wanda slides from hardcore cowgirl to traumatized victim in a couple of seconds. “I don't want to badger you, but the cops are gonna want to, so will you follow me?”

And hey, who's Wanda to not play the latter role and stroke his ego for a bit?

-

Peter's hands aren't so shaky when he fits a key into his door. He's playing the role of protective hero, maybe even fuck buddy, so Wanda continues to play traumatized victim, maybe even fellow fucknbuddy. His hands only get shaky again when he sees his couch is still full of mouldy takeout bowls and boxes. He rushes them into the kitchen before patting the dusty couch. “You can sit. Or stand. Whichever— Whatever— It's not really important, but—"

She sits just to give him the peace of mind.

“I can help you get him convicted, even without—”

“That won't be necessary—”

“I just really feel like—”

“Please? I just don't want to… escalate things.”

“Things have already escalated, with what he— what he did to you.” Peter is no longer staring at his feet, instead gazing at her like she’s genuinely meant to want all the protectiveness and sorrow and regret coming off of him in waves. With a gaze so intense, Wanda doesn't know if there's any polite way to tell him that the guy was just some innocent piece of meat. And it feels offensive to her younger self, to Pietro, who would have eaten each other's limbs just so someone could save them from creeps on the street. Or creeps at the Hydra lab. Nobody was there to save them then, so not accepting all of Peter’s emotions felt like retrospectively damning her 14-year old self, if that was possible.

And she sort of did need saving, right? Even if Wanda can't exactly remember all the danger involved in sucking dick at gunpoint.

“Do you remember what happened?” Peter asks softly.

It was actually pretty cool until the gun came out. Or until Peter hauled her off to his apartment to play knight in shining armour. Worst of all, she can’t seduce him here, now, all innocent and vulnerable. Fuck. “I’d rather not, um, talk about it.”

“Oh, that’s fine, that’s, um, I actually, I’m actually— I was actually,” he pauses, visibly debating in his head if he should lay out childhood terrors right here, right now. “It’s actually, it doesn’t really matter. It must be like, really weird that I brought you here instead of—”

“No, no, don’t worry—”

“Do you want me to call an Uber?”

“It’s really all fine. I’m fine. Really.”

“Th-That’s great.” It’s also not great, because his mind has taken to imagining him in her position and imagining her in his position: peer pressure from older boys he can’t say no to, because no one else talks about the stuff they talk about. “Might, I mean, you might want to, like, I mean, I could walk you to the station—”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that night.”

Her words click the reset button in his brain, all thoughts now primed to imagine every worst case scenario. Most of them involve Wanda telling him how much he sucks and Peter promptly dying from the endless drop of his self-esteem. He scratches his neck. “What did you want to ask?”

“Well, we did that,” she begins, “so I was hoping maybe we could—”

“I recently became an Avenger,” he blurts out. “Like, not a full one, but like, a training one and um, article six, section twelve… ” his words audibly shrink into quiet murmurs. “Well, you’ve read it.”

She did, four years ago. It’s heart-warming that he thinks her brain is that great, or that she ever actually gave a shit about any of the rules apart from the first one. “So we’re just mean to… ”

There’s a heavy silence, before Peter clears his throat and says, “We could be friends.”

Somehow, that hurts even more than Steve’s I-can’t-be-your-dad speech and Vision’s mutants-just-aren’t-humans speech. Wanda takes this the same way too—calm nods and tight smiles. “You’re right,” she says. “It would possibly be for the best.”

Peter responds just like all the others, “Exactly.” I’m so happy you get it.

Wanda does not get it though. Rejection is weird and makes no sense whatsoever. What the fuck is it with all these men, their ego, their pride, their humility, that makes them not want her? Is she only desirable when she’s nameless? When tossing her aside is always an option when because there are absolutely no consequences?

It hurts her head, makes her want to scream despite the tightness in her throat. Then again, could just be that the high of the coke has worn off and now comes the coincidental low. “I should go,” Wanda says.

Peter nods, equal parts guilty and relieved that he didn’t have to be on the receiving end of his bullshit. “You sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’ll be fine,” she smiles. And it’s true, because she always does end up fine, after the pitiful depressing moods.

-

There’s actually an advantage to being homeless for four years and then spending two years subject to nazi experimentation in Sokovia: it becomes impossible to discover new lows. Crying while flying? Low, but nothing new. Headaches, nausea and nosebleeds that end up on Natasha’s arms when Wanda comes knocking on her door? Really low, but still nothing out of the ordinary. Spending the night in Natasha’s room, waiting for her to fall asleep, then masturbating to the most basic and innocuous pictures of her? Questionable, maybe even illegal, but still, Wanda’s eaten food off a grimy floor before. She’s so pathetic.

Maybe that’s why nobody likes her.


	3. Chapter 3

Back to the euphoric adventures of Wanda Maximoff. Even though SHIELD now exists for the sole purpose of torturing her and everybody like her, they at least let her take breaks from being their international war weapon. And by breaks, they mean fighting crime in Brazil. And by fighting crime, they mean violently injuring authority figures in order to prompt military warfare against the citizens. Civil War 101. USA’s favorite method of keeping everyone in check. Plus, they get to use a jet. Plus, the jet has a so-called Stimulant Tray, that Wanda didn’t even need to sniff to know it was pure synthetic coke and stronger than anything Iron Man ever acquired (or so she thought before finding the Stark logo on the back of the sachet). Plus, it’s Brazil. Brazil is amazing, especially their gold-rimmed mansions. Plus

“Is anyone gonna let the witch know she can’t keep spacing out, or is that also part of privileges?”

“Come on, Tony–”

“I’m just saying, maybe we shouldn’t put someone so volatile on the field again. They already got Barton–”

“Barton is on _ leave _ .”

“Hah, yeah, so are ninety percent of my employees after we get another batch of automated machines. Look, I just don’t want her to screw this up again.”

“You can’t screw up blowing up a mansion.”

“Oh yeah? I bet she’s currently thinking about the best way to screw everything up. She’s not even blinking.”

“She can hear you.”

“Can she?”

“I can,” Wanda says mindlessly and Tony almost leaps away from his seat.

He stands up instead to hide the total shaking fear in his limbs. “I'm–I'm gonna get a drink.”

The three remaining Avengers watch him head for the bathroom before looking at each other. More accurately, Natasha and Steve are staring at her, frowning. “What?” Wanda asks.

Steve is the first to speak, “You don’t look okay.”

“I’m so okay,” Wanda replies.

“You got a nosebleed,” Natasha retorts.

Wanda wipes it away on her skin-tight arm-length gloves. “And now I don’t.”

Natasha is still frowning. “I hope you’re not taking the stimulants.” 

“What?” Wanda snorts and giggles and laughs. “The stimulants? Come on, this is—” she wipes away another running drop of blood. “This is the  _ telepathy _ . You know, Jean Grey? Emma Frost?”

“Didn’t they both die from telepathy?” Steve asks.

“Exactly! I'm just expiring, not—”

The jet lurches, rocking fourth dramatically before coming to a sudden stop with a loud bang. Through the windows was nothing but clear skies and no sign of a mansion. Did they get lost?

Natasha unclicks her seat “How much do you wanna bet Tony found a way to screw this up himself?”

-

“I  _ re-routed _ the plane,” Iron Man says, (un)dignified by Natasha’s accusations as they all stand before a now damaged jet. It's only half-damaged, though; decorated with dents across its belly and completely un-travel-in-able. Thick grass and twigs brush Wanda's pink leather boots. Sweat is already itching her thighs and she's pretty sure she can hear snakes.

“This is not a  _ re-routed _ plane,” Natasha stresses. “It is a  _ crashed _ plane– an  _ unusable _ plane– a  _ no-way-home _ plane.”

“Yeah, and thanks to me, we're still alive to even think about home.” Every time Iron Man opens his mouth to speak, Wanda idly wonders if the rasp is a result of age or smoking. He looks stupid with every part of him covered in red and gold, save for his face. The most important thing about all his interactions is that everyone needs to see the mocking faces he pulls as he talks. She also wonders if she only hates him so much because she's horny— _ not _ because he's actively trying to get rid of her all the time. “Do you know what we were on course for? Cameras, that's what. We would have been shot down before we even touched the mansion.”

“And you know this because, what, you somehow see inside every nearby device?”

“Yes, actually. Thank you, EDITH.”

“Guys, guys,” Steve rises from where he lay flat on his chest.

Iron Man scoffs. “Did you have a nice nap, old man?” 

“I was listening for the terrain. The good news is, they don't know we're here in spite of the crash. Thank you, Tony, for protecting us.”

“Finally! Somebody appreciates me—”

“You're enabling his sociopathy—”

Steve sighs. “Who has the dynamite?”

All three of them turn to look at a tree behind Wanda. Or, they're looking at Wanda. Shit. If she says anything, they'll know she's high. 

“Um,” she begins professionally. “What Iron Man has done here is a very great cause for concern. Not only is he one of the greatest contributors to global warming with his endless line of technology, mining, and tree-cutting, but now he's gone and crashed the only jet that we, the X-Men—”

“Wanda—” Fun fact: when Steve is firm he has this really sexy voice that half sounds like he plans to kill someone, half fuck them, maybe both. “Where's the dynamite?” 

“Holy fuck, the bitch forgot the dynamite.”

“Do not call her that. Wanda, where did you—”

“I purposefully left it behind because I didn't trust it on a jet with any of you,” Wanda lies. “One look inside your minds and all I see are these flashbacks and guilt trips and inexplicable desires to die a martyr because you are all too cowardly to live with the atrocities you've committed.” Her words shut even Tony up. She hopes they never find out she's just projecting and she has no actual idea what they're thinking. Their shameful silence sort of hurts, so she continues. “I just want what's best for you all. Even you, T—” That name is a swear word she can't say without a million frames of her dead parents flashing behind her eyes in a split second. They flash. They're gone. Wanda will not puke—not when she's gotten this far bullshitting about her negligence. 

“Even me, huh?” Iron Man echoes quietly, moved by her faux empathy. It's disgusting.

“I don't want any of you getting more blood on your hands, so I'll do it all by myself!” Wanda strikes her left breast, which–with only a leotard covering it– hurts so fucking much. 

“You don't have to do that,” Natasha says. She's literally pouring admiration from her mind.

“But I must,” Wanda sniffs. More blood. She quickly wipes it away. “Stand back, everyone.”

Captain America, Black Widow and Iron Man all take a step back to watch her perform her magic. Wanda wishes Clint was here to see it. Then again, Clint would have probably also taken the stimulants and worse, admitted everyone Wanda did forget the dynamite, just so he would be  _ doing the right thing _ . Good thing he's getting fired or something.

Now for the main question: can Wanda Maximoff blow up a mansion several miles behind the horizon and get the rest of the Avengers home?

To answer that, she has to think about Jean Grey, aka. one of the only two female telepaths Wanda has ever heard of. Jean Grey became a master of fire from her telepathic abilities. It's a matter of focusing on molecules instead of thoughts, clashing the right ones together until they're all popping enough on both a micro-  _ and _ macro- level and everything becomes part of the flame. Jean Grey did it, in part because she had way more support than Wanda ever will, but also she got the powers of an outer space phoenix thing before she died. Wanda does not have the power of an outer space phoenix thing with her. It's just her, her too-tight leotard, her silly-looking M- shaped crown and three Avengers watching her expectantly. 

“This is probably going to kill me,” Wanda says quietly. “but I'll do this because I love you all.”

She can hear Natasha choke back a sob behind her. Out of curiosity, she takes a quick peek inside the minds behind her. They're all deeply concerned, yet not one of them have plans to make out with her dying corpse. Assholes.

Bending one knee forward and the other back, Wanda throws her arms before her to brace herself for the likely aftermath of blowing up a whole damn mansion. She's focusing on one air molecule. Focusing on each air molecule for every room in the mansion. A good twelve octillion per room. Twenty-four. Fifty-six. Her brain already hurts. Wanda screws her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. She no longer has the leeway to fuck up. It's either this or indefinite solitary confinement once Iron Man is done with her. 

Fifty-six octillion particles subject to her whims.

Two hundred octillion particles held in her palm. 

One man polishing the metal of his semi-automatic.

Everything after that is a burst of bright lights and flames and smoke that throws Wanda on her back and she's screaming, she's burning, she's crying, she's dying, she's

-

The U.S. are so obsessed with making games out of everything that after every mission, there's a rule that allows the Avengers to decide among themselves who is the M.V.A–Most Valuable Avenger. Most kills, rescues, set-ups, saves, these make for a valuable Avenger. Screw-ups and especially black-outs make for a bad one.

Wanda Maximoff compromised the entire mission by neglecting to carry dynamite on their journey from New York to Brazil. However, she also rescued the entire operation by preventing multiple suicide attempts. Furthermore, she accumulated the most kills and carried out the entire operation by herself. 

“So the big guys are really proud of you,” Natasha concludes. Literally, none of what she read from the report entered Wanda's mind, but Wanda loves the sound of Natasha's voice so it's a win. “I'm concerned for you though.”

Picture this: sexy toned would-be-milf-if-not-sterile holds your palm as she sits on your hospital bed, tells you she is "concerned". That's Wanda. If Natasha had super hearing, she would hear a pulse at exactly 10,000 bpm.

“Why?” Wanda rasps.

“Look at you. And when you were in that forest, screaming and– and writhing, I– ” Natasha pauses to breathe away an oncoming crack in her voice. She blinks back tears. Being cared for might actually be sexier than sex itself. 

Wanda is once again bed-ridden. This time, she hasn’t been defeated by black market contraceptives. As the story goes, the second the house blew up, Wanda fell to the floor to do some super cute things like:

  1. Claw at her own throat;
  2. Beg for the flames to stop;
  3. Choke on smoke that was several miles away from them;
  4. Wrap herself around Steve’s leg under the impression that he was a tree and the fastest way away from an imaginary fire;
  5. Eyes rolling back;
  6. Lots of crying;
  7. And rambling about S*k*v*a.

Natasha theorized that Wanda must have accidentally entered the minds of one of the guards on-site and ended up trapped in the fire. Natasha neglects to mention that since Wanda was emulating death, someone had to carry her piss-ridden faux corpse on the way back. And judging from Natasha’s memories, it was the only one out of them who could fly.

Thankfully, a healthy dose of medical-grade morphine and blacking out made it totally impossible to remember any of it. Another win for Wanda.

“You mentioned S—” Wanda leans her head back to block out that terrible word Natasha says. “It seemed like you were there as well as the fire.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You mentioned P—” Another terrible word that brings about terrible images.

“And?”

“That’s in no way related to your trauma?”

“I don’t have trauma.”

“So you just say things that mean things for totally no reason.”

“ _ Da _ ,” Wanda stares at the cream curtains of the hospital room. “Not everyone has their Red Room like you.”

The hand in Wanda’s palm leaves as Natasha leans back before finally rising from the bed. All the Avengers are ticking time bombs; the slightest poke at their issues has them scurrying like cockroaches. 

“I care about you,” Natasha hisses. Now that her words are lined with nothing but rage, they make Wanda’s heart beat the wrong way. “Like, I  _ really _ care about you. More than I’m meant to, because no-one else in this damn country will. Steve’s just a puppet and Tony won’t waste a second shooting you down once I get out of the way.”

“We’ve actually got a rule against interpersonal relationships too,” Wanda mumbles, vaguely reminded of the last Avenger-sort-of who broke up-sort-of with her. “They might pick us up for talking this much to each other.”

“Not if it’s for the safety of the team,” Natasha retorts. “I don’t know if you think you’re trying to protect one of us by being a liar, but this is all going to come crashing down on you and it’s going to ruin us all. You have PTSD. I’m right and you’re wrong.” 

Even her storming out and her ginger red hair flying behind her is sexy. Wanda presses a button that sends endorphins through arm just as much as it makes her skin itchy. While Natasha’s hot, Wanda half-wishes it was Steve who came to cry over her maybe-dead body instead. Steve wouldn’t care so much as he would  _ pretend  _ to care and pretending for him never involved overly-personal psychoanalysis. 

Between milligrams of morphine and the edge of an existential crisis, an idea breaks right into Wanda’s head and it’s so startlingly fantastic that she nearly leaps right out of bed. Natasha just fixed everything. 

-

When Wanda is tried for her sins, the list will be endless. Somewhere between attempted assassination and wilful damage, there will be stalking. You know, the kind of thing abusive and toxic people do when they can’t take no for a no. Stalking, invading privacy, overstepping boundaries, it sort of comes with the territory of being a telepath. Although, Iron Man has EDITH and as far as America knows, he's not a sinner. So resting in peace is mostly likely a money thing, not a morality one. 

Wanda anoints herself abusive and toxic as she finds herself sneaking out at night once more in Natasha’s clothes just a week after their  _ conflict _ . Natasha can hold grudges, but she also disturbingly thinks of Wanda as a daughter (instead of very sexually available grown woman, the fucking bitch), so Wanda only has to pout some before she’s allowed to go in and out of Natasha’s shit again. Wanda heads to the edge of one of those crappy regions, you know the one. High heels go clickity-clack as she climbs those gross concrete stairs, you know the one. She knocks on a door, you know the one. Some guy opens the door, you know the one.

A few things were underestimated when Wanda decided to come prowling for this guy. Like how much she missed him. If you asked her, she would say not at all. Every guy who left her life took a thousand problems with him. Still, it's incredibly hard to breathe or even speak when the pale-skinned freak is staring at her. She also underestimated how hot she thought he was. He was definitely uglier last time. Or maybe she’s just really horny. That’s another thing she underestimated. Also, how hard it is to recite a pre-planned script when you’re standing right in front of your opposing star. Whenever Wanda’s heart beat this fast, she would usually just slip into someone else’s mind. That isn’t much of an option currently. She exhaled out her hesitation.

“Hi,” Wanda likes to think her smile is close to award-winning and Peter’s brain might just be too slow to realize it. “It’s lovely seeing you again.”

Peter rubs his eyes warily. His executively dysfunctional brain crashes as hard as it soars. It’s hardly gotten behind the fact that Wanda is standing before him, but at the same time, it’s pouring out all his most recent memories of her. It’s sort of flattering that he’s been jerking off to mental images of her. Her, as a mutilated corpse.

“Why are you here?” he asks before catching himself, polite boy that he is. “I mean, it’s great seeing you too, just, like, um, how? I mean, why? Like, do you need anything? And not in a rude way, I’m just—”

“Can I come in?”

-

Peter’s apartment smells like depression; stale air, cultivated spores, untidy sheets and stewing sweat whip Wanda’s nose hard enough that she has to remind herself not to stagger backward, especially in Natasha’s heels. Peter himself no longer cares for the empty cartons decorating the place as he did ninety-nine years ago when they were just two consenting adults. Dread and emptiness steal most of what he has to say, so he clears his couch, though Wanda knows there’s no way in hell she’s sitting on the rotting thing. She chooses to lean against the wall instead, the only place that isn’t a concern for WHO. Peter, all awkward imitation, leans against the arm of the couch, scratching his head as he hopes the silence shatters soon. In her mental script, Peter looks healthier and happier and talk-to-able-er. He isn’t streaming episodes of his latest moments this week between his neurons. The neuron-streaming lets Wanda see the highlights: dropping a civilian in front of a truck on an inter-regional bridge, losing someone’s leg in the rubble of a collapsed building, allowing a little boy choke on the unforgiving tendrils of smoke in a burning building. All accidents—all sickening, yet warm satisfaction. If she could, Wanda would be the one to hate Peter instead of himself. That way, his thoughts would be a little clearer and she wouldn’t be vicariously participating in his existential crises. 

“So, um, like,” His voice is as crusty as his scalp. “Like, not to make this weird or anything, I’m just, I wasn’t expecting you, like, at all, so, like, I’m just wondering if you, like, you know—”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Wanda tells him.

“Oh, okay.”

Silence resumes. When she was leaping from her bed like a maniac on coke, Wanda believed she had discovered a loophole in one of the world’s most oppressive laws. That’s something only Tony Stark had since accomplished. Now that she has to say it aloud to another living person, it’s difficult not to think herself an idiot and resent her total utter horniness. 

“Article six, section thirteen says we can fuck.”

Peter’s initial reaction is a heaving-squealing sound because the only people who say  _ fuck  _ like that to him are the exes and pornstars in his brain. There  _ may _ have been a better way to phrase it, but English is not Wanda’s first language. “Wha– You ju–  _ What _ ?”

“Enhanced individuals assigned to the Avengers team are not permitted to participate in romantic and-or sexual relationships between one another. SHIELD reserves the right to respond with appropriate measures, including military discharge, solitary confinement–”

“That’s section twelve,” Peter interrupts.

“If I don’t start from there, I’ll forget the next part.” Wanda gets a skeptical nod for all her hard and dutiful work. Clearing her throat, she continues to recite what she crammed. “In the case that the romantic and-or sexual relationship is required for the wellbeing of a comrade or the entire team, fraternization is permitted. SHIELD may request transcripts of all romantic and-or sexual activities for review—see case files on Banner for further information.”

Peter squints. “Didn’t they kill Dr. Banner?”

“That’s not really the point,” Wanda says. “This is basically permission to do what we want.”

“While they watch our every move,” Peter says slowly. “Hardly sounds like permission.”

“We’re always being watched.”

“We are?”

Wanda neglects to mention the fact that their respective superhero suits have been chipped for years now. She also neglects to mention the fact that all neighbours are in fact spies and whoever Peter  _ thinks  _ has a disturbingly loud party every Friday is actually living on a government paycheck just for living in the same building as Peter. Also, none of his bosses or co-workers are real people, but Wanda had a feeling that bursting his perception of reality might keep his pants closed forever. “N-Not really,” she says. “But we don’t really have to hand in anything genuine.”

“The law kinda says we do.”

“And what if I just happened to have a stash of pre-written reports to regularly hand in?”

“Do you?”

“We’re talking hypotheticals here, Parcour.”

“Parker,” he sighs, running a hand through his flaky, greasy, unkempt hair. “I don’t know, I just, it’s just… my uncle died because of me and I’ve  _ hurt _ people before and I don’t–you know, I don’t want that to be _ you _ .”

In English, that’s the “I’m willing to bang you long term in spite of my religious self-blame and constant hero complex” speech and it’s near impossible for Wanda to not break out grinning. She’s basically his wife now. His honest-to-G-d, dicked-down, one-on-one exclusive  _ wife _ .

“Yeah, well,” To all those people who gave Peter this library of pursuing lines for Wanda to choose from, a sincere thank you. Wanda adds a bit of Romanoff-inspired seduction to it; closing in on his personal space, lowering her voice to what he’ll hopefully interpret as  _ sexy sultress _ and not  _ desperate slut _ . “I’ve hurt people too.”

If Peter’s lust is a tower, Wanda’s words are the hijacked plane one 11/9 and all his sadistic fantasies collapse on her like the Trading Card Center or whatever it is Americans lost that day. Of course, Peter still has dignity and manners and all that social cue nonsense, so he’s all pacing away and hands in his hair and cold feet. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “How do we even pull off something like that?”

“We could start slow,” Wanda tells him. 

“We already, you know—”

“Fucked.”

He chokes.

“But we didn’t even know each other so it hardly counts.”

“It does to me.”

“Then we’ll… start again.”

He stares at her with innocent doe eyes like half his brain isn’t thinking about choking her. “Can we do that?”

“For sure.” Wanda inhales and stands straight. “Wanda Maximoff, officially Scarlet Witch, member of the Avengers. Pleasure to meet you.” She sticks out her hand. Peter looks between it and her face. There’s no need for hesitation or doubt. She wants to fuck him. He wants to fuck, but mostly murder her. Just say yes, say yes, say yes, say ye  


Peter takes her hand in a gentle hold, lubricated with cold sweat. “Peter Parker,” he breathes. “Spider-Man, member of the Avengers. Nice to meet you too.”


End file.
